


Bits and pieces

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men, Person of Interest (TV), Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Ficlet, Multi, OT3, Rule 63, Threesome - F/F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of small ficlets from Tumblr. Ratings and pairings will vary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shaw/Root - untitled

Finch generally brings Root’s food in himself. He’s trying to establish a connection, Shaw thinks, and that’s a quick way to do it. Sometimes he tries to engage her in conversation. That’s another way - show her proof of his humanity outside this room, see if she can dig up hers from wherever she buried it.

It isn’t going to work. Finch doesn’t know what he’s dealing with, in Shaw’s studied opinion. He doesn’t understand what Root is. Not really.

Shaw does. Not that her knowledge keeps her away. She was the kind of kid who put her hand on the burner just to see if was as hot as everyone claimed. 

She watches Root sleep occasionally, once for three quarters of an hour. Her eyelids barely move, even when she should be in an REM cycle, and her breathing is even and deep. She’s probably never had a nightmare in her life. 

It’s a fucked up hobby. Shaw doesn’t care.

Reese attends to Root when Finch is away. He hates it like poison, but he’d do anything Finch asked him to. So he’ll never complain about it either. Nobody asks Shaw to help, which is certainly a deliberate choice.

But when Finch is at the bank setting up five fake accounts or destroying someone’s credit history or whatever he does, it just so happens that Reese is across town as well, helping Carter with a case. And lo and behold - it’s lunchtime.

Shaw brings Root the salad and soup that Finch has chosen for her, but she commandeers the peach for herself. It’s gorgeously ripe and Shaw makes a show of eating it, letting the juice run down her chin, licking it off her fingers.

Root doesn’t even twitch. She watches quietly, smiling, fingers hooked in the wire of her cage. Patient as a snake. 

"Better eat your greens," Shaw says after she has finished. "Wouldn’t want to get scurvy."

"Do you ever regret your part in this?" Root asks with mild curiosity, like she’s talking about something she saw on the news, not her own captivity. "Imagine what we could have done together."

"No," Shaw says. "But I regret not using the taser on you when I had a chance. I still owe you one."

Root sucks in a breath and swallows involuntarily. Her lips part a little, and there it is, there it is - the hunger Shaw was waiting for.


	2. Peggy/Stan/Ginsberg - rule 63

Peggy was going to stop doing this, she decided. The secretive trysts, using drinking as an excuse, all of it. It was crazy. It was going to ruin her career.

Then Stan bit her earlobe, just the right amount of pressure, and she gasped. She was going to stop doing this _later_.

Peggy had never thought of herself as being interested in girls. Even if she had it was unlikely that she would have pictured someone like Stan, who was too square jawed and broad shouldered to be called pretty. Stan cut her hair short and always wore pants and was exactly the kind of woman that got called names on the street. She didn’t give a shit.

That was a very attractive quality. Joyce thought so. “If you don’t make a move, I will,” she told Peggy, who had rolled her eyes.

Stan undid the buttons on Peggy’s blouse and ran the tips of her fingers along the edge of her lacy bra. “Very nice. Did you wear this for me?”

"No," said Peggy, even though she had put it on this morning thinking of just this, knowing that they would be alone in the office tonight.

It was sheer, which was convenient because Peggy felt absolutely everything when Stan put her mouth on her breast, sucking on her nipple through the thin fabric. “God,” Peggy panted, arching her back and grabbing at Stan’s hair.

Stan put a hand up Peggy’s skirt. “We have to do this in a bed someday. I want to be able to take my time fucking you.”

"Yes, fine," Peggy gasped, without a very clear idea of what she was saying. Stan was rubbing her in teasing little circles through her underwear.

"Do these match?" Stan asked, slipping her fingers inside. "Did you buy them special? I do appreciate the effort you put in, Peggy."

Peggy whined - actually whined - and kissed Stan. “Yes, you asshole.”

"That’s my girl," said Stan, sounding deeply satisfied. "Always planning ahead. I should take them with me, for a souvenir."

And that sent a jolt through Peggy, the idea of taking the subway home bare under her skirt, nobody knowing but herself and Stan. “Yes,” she said, tugging Stan’s shirt out of her pants. “I want that, I do - “

Stan was helping her, undoing her own belt, pressed together and getting in each other’s way. “Let’s - ” she started to say, and that was when the door opened and the room flooded with horrible, horrible light.

Several things happened all at once. Peggy screamed, Stan rolled off her and hit her knee on the side of the desk and Ginsberg said, “Did you guys know the copier is busted - oh, _for fuck’s sake_.”

"You aren’t even supposed to be here!" Peggy yelled at Ginsberg’s fluffy haired silhouette.

"Can I not go into a room without stumbling upon someone mid-coitus?" Ginsberg demanded, hands on her hips.

"What?" Peggy asked, because Ginsberg had never interrupted her and Stan before. She didn’t even know about it, unless Stan had been gossiping.

Stan was lolling back on the desk, unconcerned about her state of undress. “Meredith and Mathis have discovered a passion for one another. Ginzo found them in the supply closet last week.”

"Oh my god," Peggy said, and laughed because it was the funniest thing she had ever heard. She completely forgot her blouse was still wide open.

"Oh, hahaha," Ginsberg said, puffing up with righteous indignation as only she could. "I do not come to work so I can see my coworkers bare-assed. My eyes are stained forever!"

"Are you all pissed because you’re actually offended, or because we’re leaving you out?" Stan asked, eyeing Ginsberg shrewdly.

"I have no interest in your sapphic shenanigans," Ginsberg declared, but her voice quavered.

"Hey, I’m in if Peggy is," Stan said with a shrug. She looked at Peggy and raised her eyebrows, sly. "I have a theory that there’s a great rack under there somewhere."

Peggy considered Ginsberg, in her baggy cardigan and a skirt that might have started life as a potato sack. Her old scuffed shoes, her stockings that had rolled down below her knees, the tremulous expression of hope and fear on her face. “What if I said yes?”

Ginsberg hovered in place, throat working. She seemed at a loss. Finally she stepped forward, into the room. “Okay,” she said, quietly, and closed the door behind her. “Okay.”


	3. Megan/Ginsberg: Grapholagnia - the urge to stare at obscene pictures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For pggyolson's prompt on tumblr.

Megan was a tidy person, but she had a bit of a problem with hoarding paper. She suspected it stemmed from working in a foreign country for years - keeping everything around left less room for error should an authority suddenly demand proof that you weren’t secretly a Russian spy. Still, she was unlikely to ever need paystubs from 1965 again, so one lazy Saturday she and Michael cleaned out her filing cabinet.

"You were in an ad for toothpaste?" he asked, having found her old portfolio tucked behind an outdated passport and a rental agreement from three apartments ago. 

"The year I got here," she said. "A friend was shooting it, that was the only reason I got the gig. I had no idea what I was doing and it ran in the newspaper for five minutes. You can throw all that out."

"Aw, I think you look cute," he said. "I’m keeping it."

"Suit yourself," she said, distractedly trying to read her own handwriting. Was this a grocery list? Why would she keep that?

"What’s - whoa, okay. Nevermind. This is not for my eyes."

She looked up to see him frantically stuffing some pictures back into an envelope.

"What is it?"

He tossed them to her, shamefaced. “You’re - well, you better look.”

She slid them out. “They’re - oh, for god’s sake Michael. They’re just some art nudes. I do have a lot of artist friends, you know. I used to pose for life drawing classes.” She shrugged and held a photograph up. “And I look pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

He cleared his throat. “You always look good.”

She grinned at him. “You can keep these too, if you want.”

"Megan!"

"What? You’ve seen everything live and in person. I don’t see the big deal."

"That’s totally different." he was so embarrassed her could barely look at her, which was hilarious given some of what they got up to in this very room.

She stepped forward and pressed up against him, envelope still in her hand. He went stiff against her - in more ways than one. Ha, she knew it! 

"Want to compare and contrast?" she whispered in his ear.


	4. Ill Met By Moonlight - A Midsummer Night's Dream AU (Mad Men)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize in advance.

“No,” said Ginsberg flatly. “I refuse to be involved in this.” He was hanging upside down from a tree branch with his arms crossed, the very picture of bullheaded resistance.

Roger put his drink down in frustration. Why couldn’t he have a normal manservant? Everyone else got one. “What makes you think you have a choice?”

“This is going to backfire,” Ginsberg said. “Joan never thinks your pranks are funny. If she shuts you up in a tree trunk again don’t think I’ll be rescuing you. I’ll leave you there forever.”

“This isn’t a prank. This is how I’m going to get back into her good graces.”

Ginsberg looked dubious. He never did understand the finer points of a sophisticated plan.

“It boils down to this: do what I say. Period.”

“Fine,” said Ginsberg, grumpy. “But if she catches on I’m blaming you.”

“Good boy,” Roger said, picking up his drink again. “Do you remember the name of the flower?”

“Love-in-idleness,” Ginsberg recited, sounding like a reluctant schoolchild.

“Get it done as soon as possible,” Roger instructed. “Oh, and one more thing - I want you to look for a young man in Athenian dress -”

 

Roger and Ginsberg wrapped themselves in a glamour and watched the scene unfold. Joan was positively glowing, her attendants waiting hand and foot on the object of her affections. One lovely, dark haired fairy looked particularly familiar. Roger was fairly sure she was Ginsberg’s little girlfriend. Mustardseed? No, that couldn’t be right.

As for the Queen’s paramour himself…

“The ears are a nice touch,” Roger admitted. “And so is the braying.”

“I had to,” Ginsberg said. “He was too pretty before.”

Roger squinted, trying to get a read on Bob Benson’s features past all the magic. He gave up. “You have weird taste in mortals, kid. Why can’t you just seduce milkmaids like everyone else?”

“Isn’t that what got you in hot water with Joan in the first place?”

Roger glared at him. “How do you know about that? Did Mustardseed tell you?”

Ginsberg’s brow furrowed. “Who the hell is ‘Mustardseed’?”

“Forget about it,” Roger said, irritated. “How did it go with the Athenians?”

“Well,” Ginsberg said, guilt written all over his face. “About that…”

 

“I don’t understand,” Roger said blankly. “What are they doing?”

“Trying to kill each other, looks like.”

“But why?” Roger watched them run back and forth, waving swords around inexpertly. One of the women screamed, a thin and panicky sound. Someone was going to lose an ear if they kept it up.

Ginsberg winced. “You said, ‘a young man in Athenian dress’. I thought, how many can there be?”

Roger shook his head. Mortals. Such pains in the ass. “It’s naptime for these folks. Call up a fog, Ginsberg.”

The fog rolled out, velvet-thick and cold. It wrapped itself around the hapless mortals like a serpent. Time to get to work.

 

Roger woke Joan gently, lying beside her in her bower. She smiled at him fondly and murmured his name. There were flowers woven into her hair and green ferns sprouted from the bodice of her dress, cupping her lush curves possessively.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he said.

She stretched like a cat, starting slightly when her arm collided with the shoulder of Bob Benson, curled up behind her. He slept like a man who had just had the time of his life.

“What - “ she said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Roger soothed. “Just a bit of moonlight madness.”

Joan smiled again, so sweetly that he didn’t notice the lightning in her eyes or the vines wrapping themselves slyly around his wrists. Not until it was too late.

“Roger,” she cooed. “Roger, you are in so much _trouble_.”

 

“You’re right,” Megan said, looking down at Bob’s slumbering form. “He is pretty.”

“Told you.” It was particularly true now, flushed with wine and exaltation from the party. Ginsberg could hear the revelers still going at it not far away, voices and music drifting up from the wedding reception. Bob had wandered away, following a cool breeze, and nodded off under a big old oak.

“You bring me the best presents,” Megan said.

Ginsberg grinned stupidly. He couldn’t help it. He lost his head around her. She smelled like roses and the morning dew.

“He should know better than to sleep outside,” Ginsberg said. “What with all the strange dreams he’s had lately.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Think he’s up for another one?”

Megan’s smile was wicked and entirely welcome. “Let’s wake him up and find out.”


	5. Shaw/Root - undercover as a couple

"Our sex life isn’t the problem," Root said, leaning forward. "Our relationship is _very_ physical.” She did her best to look artless; butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. So full of bullshit.

Dr. Stephen Kovalenko, marriage counselor and gambling addict, nodded and turned to Shaw. His mouth was turned down in faux sympathy. “Are you having trouble connecting emotionally?”

"Uh," said Shaw. She was going to kill Finch for this.

"It’s just -" Root grabbed a tissue from the side table, dabbing at her dry eyes. Even more full of bullshit. "She never talks to me anymore. I might as well be furniture."

"Do you have anything to add, Andrea?" Kovalenko asked Shaw, giving her a paternal smile that she wanted to smack off his face.

"No," Shaw said, robotically.

From behind her tissue Root cast a sly look in Shaw’s direction. She pressed her legs together and Shaw knew that she was worrying the bitemark that was underneath her tasteful slacks, blooming purple across her thigh. Shaw knew this because she had put it there herself this morning.

The doctor raised his eyebrows. “I’d like you to consider coming in twice a week. How does Monday and Wednesday sound?”

"There goes our tennis lessons," Root said cheerfully.


	6. Sam Shaw/Jenny Mills - crossover

Jenny climbed out of the pit and kicked what might have been brains - or might have been guts - out of her way, She was covered in pumpkin orange gore and the whole mess smelled intensely boozy, like the worst kind of hillbilly rotgut.

The woman who had come to their aid looked remarkably nonplussed for someone who had tentacle bits in her hair. She had cut through the screaming crowd, pulled the pin out with her teeth, and tossed a grenade in the creature’s mouth as casually as lobbing a softball.

"Thanks," Jenny said. "You really saved my ass, and I don’t mind admitting it."

The woman smiled, one side of her mouth quirking up, and watched Jenny through heavy-lidded eyes. She extended a hand. “Sam Shaw.”

"Jenny Mills," Jenny said. Sam had a strong grip, and surprisingly calloused hands. "Is there anything I can do to show my appreciation?"

The smile spread across Sam’s face until it was a full on grin. “You could show me what people do around here for fun.”

"What do - you mean like a _date_?” Jenny felt her face heat up, in spite of being a grown woman and too old for that sort of thing. Behind her, Irving made a sound like he was choking on his own tongue.


End file.
